Home is Where the War is
by Arley Dial
Summary: A Captain of the Deathwatch learns his true place in the Imperium.


Home is Where the War is

 _Do your worst, Inquisitor,_ Sergeant Ses Hanasba thought. _This will be my last mission with the Deathwatch._

"I copy, Overwatch. Bearing one-four-two," said Hanasba.

"Affirmative, Tomahawk One," said the voice over the com. "Overwatch out."

"Transmission terminated," said Torquemeda. The Space Marine was crouched over a terminal that had seen better days. The panels were missing, and a tangled mass of wires protruded from the yawning holes.

"I can hear that for myself," said Hanasba, yanking the queue of wires from his helmet. A shower of sparks erupted from the exposed guts of the com terminal as if the machine spirit was voicing a final complaint before expiring.

"Yes, Sergeant," said the marine, gently disconnecting the power feed and tucking the wires back into the rusted housing.

Guilt washed over Hanasba as he watched the marine pay his respects to the machine.

"Good work making contact, Torquemeda," said Hanasba.

"Thank you, Sergeant," said the marine.

Torquemeda's right pauldron bore the blue-on-white iconography of the Praetors of Orpheus. At least it had when they made landfall. After twenty-seven local days of operations on Pileatus, the symbol was barely discernible beneath accumulated muck and scorch marks.

"We would not have made it this far without your technical knowledge," said Hanasba.

Torquemeda nodded but did not reply.

"Gather the others," said the sergeant. "Leave Olafur on watch. I will brief him myself."

Torquemeda took up his bolter and moved toward the hole in the rockcrete wall that was the only access point to the room.

While waiting for Torquemeda to gather the team, Hanasba took the time to see to his equipment. The conditions on Pileatus had hardly been conducive to good maintenance even before the planet had been invaded by the Arch-Arsonist of Charadon. The atmosphere would be toxic to any human without at respirator. Every step that Hanasba had taken on this cursed world had been atop the effluvia vomited forth by the factorum-cities. Rivers of orange sludge ran through canyons of scrapped machinery between banks of granulated rust.

Hearing the sound of heavy footsteps coming toward the opening, he quickly replaced the curved clip in his bolter and racked the slide. He held his gun ready, pointed at the floor just below the opening.

"Snow," said Hanasba as the figure stepped into view.

"Blind," came the response to the challenge.

Hanasba lowered his bolter.

"Tomahawk Four, reporting as requested," said the marine.

"How does it look out there, Mocanu?" asked Hanasba.

"The same as it has the past lunar cycle, Sergeant," replied Mocanu.

"Take a knee, Marine," said Hanasba. "Mullinax and Torquemeda should be here shortly. Olafur is remaining on watch."

"I guess it's bad news then," said Mocanu.

Hanasba did not reply.

The last two members of the kill-team arrived moments later. Torquemeda entered the destroyed room and took a knee near Mocanu, while Mullinax was still carefully making his way through the entrance. The terminator armor Mullinax wore could unleash a hell of destruction, but in the unstable confines of the room such power could be detrimental.

"Tomahawk Five reporting as ordered, Sergeant," said Mullinax. The terminator bore the iconography of the Dark Hunters on his right pauldron, though it was as marred by the scars of war as the rest of the kill-team's armor.

"We have made contact with Overwatch," said Hanasba without preamble. "We have a heading and range. We leave here at nightfall."

"Is our primary objective dirt side?" asked Mocanu.

"Not to my knowledge," replied Hanasba. "This appears to be a new operational objective."

Kill-team Tomahawk's primary objective had been the elimination of an ork Warboss who had recently risen to prominence. Shortly after the kill-team had arrived however, the Warboss had left the planet and traveled to an orbiting fortress. Despite the crude nature of the satellite, heavy fortifications put the boss beyond the reach of even the Deathwatch.

"What is the new objective?" asked Mullinax.

"Unknown at this time," said Hanasba. "Our orders are to make our way to the checkpoint and reestablish contact."

"Are you sure we will be able to make contact?" asked Torquemeda.

"The map shows that the checkpoint is located at or near a large factorum-city," said Hanasba. "There should be Imperial forces in the area."

"And if we do not?" asked Mocanu.

"If we do not, then Torquemeda will have to restore communications as best he can," said Hanasba.

"We got lucky here," said Torquemeda. "I found a functional communications array with a power source nearby. How many of those have we seen since we landed?"

"Luck has gotten us this far," said Hanasba. "Let's just hope it holds out."

Once it was discovered that their primary objective had fled the planet, Hanasba expected to be extracted and sent to a more critical part of the front, but that had not happened. The kill-team had been given a set of nearby coordinates and told to destroy what they found there. They had done what they do best, infiltrating and destroying the anti-aircraft battery without taking a single casualty. They had used the orks' own communications array to contact Overwatch, but rather than being extracted, they had received yet another set of coordinates.

And another after that.

For nearly a local lunar cycle, Kill-Team Tomahawk had been sent from objective to objective, killing orks and destroying materiel every step of the way. It was what they were trained for. It was what they were born for.

"If there are Imperial forces in this city, it is possible we will be extracted," said Mocanu.

"What's wrong, Iron Lord," said Mullinax. "Tired of killing orks already?"

"I've killed more greenskins than you, Dark Hunter," retorted Mocanu. "I could kill a million more and not think it's too many."

The marines shared a laugh as Hanasba stepped out of the room, leaving them to their banter.

He knew how Mocanu felt. One could never grow tired of killing orks, but these were special circumstances.

Before deploying to the Pileatus system, the Watch Commander had summoned Hanasba to a private council. Sergeant Hanasba had been informed that he was being considered for permanent secondment with the Deathwatch. Upon his return, a tribunal would be held to determine his future and he would be asked for his input. Never in his life as a Space Marine had he been notified when his fate was being discussed. One went where one was sent and completed the mission. A soldier had nothing to add to the discussion.

During the journey to Pileatus, Hanasba had confided in his senior battle-brother Mocanu.

"I have never been asked to make a choice like this," Hanasba had said. "In battle I have command over the kill-team and have the autonomy to make tactical and strategic decisions, but the course of my life has always been determined by others."

"You have been given a great opportunity, Ses," replied Mocanu.

"But what is the right decision?" asked Hanasba.

"Isn't it obvious?" asked Mocanu. "Go home, brother. You have served honorably and done your chapter proud. Go back and teach the Illuminators what you have learned. The Emperor knows there are few of us who will get that opportunity."

"You are right, brother," Hanasba had said. "It is time to go back to Dischidn."

Hanasba found the final member of the kill-team crouched upon a jutting piece of rockcrete. Had it not been for the designator in his helmet display, Hanasba would never have seen the cunningly concealed marine.

"Snow," came the challenge call over the com-bead.

"Blind," replied Hanasba.

"I still say that's a silly challenge for this mission," said Olafur as if they were picking up a conversation they had been having moments ago. "It can't have snowed on this blighted world for a thousand years."

"That is why I chose it, old friend," said Hanasba. "Is the perimeter secure?"

"Except for the ghosts of old machines," replied Olafur.

"Then come down here," said Hanasba. "We need to talk."

"Just when I was getting comfortable," said Olafur clambering down from his lookout post.

"It's my job to make sure you never get comfortable, Olafur," said the team leader.

"You always have an answer for everything," said Olafur. "You should have joined the administratum. You could have spent your days formulating answers to irrelevant questions."

"At least then I wouldn't have to endure your grousing all the time," said Hanasba. "I feel as if my Grandmother is following me around wearing an old suit of armor."

Olafur's laughter was harsh and grating. Olafur Valsson of the Wolf Brothers wore one of the oldest suits of Mark VI power armor that Hanasba had ever seen. The protruding beak of the corvus pattern helmet had been modified by some long forgotten artificer so that it resembled the slavering jaws of a wolf. Hanasba often teased the Wolf Brother that it matched his personality and improved his looks at the same time.

"I assume that we're being sent on another valek hunt," said Olafur. As obstinate as the Wolf Brother could sometimes be, he was no fool. Many of his enemies had learned that lesson the hard way.

"We have coordinates and distance that puts us in an Imperial held city," said Hanasba, ignoring the quip though he was curious as to what a 'valek' was. "It could mean extraction and mobilization to a more critical battleground."

"And it could mean we have to play wet-nurse to another guard commander," said Olafur. "Or spike another lance battery which the humans could easily do themselves."

"You don't know that," said Hanasba.

"But you should," said Olafur. "You've followed the orders of these mystery-mongers longer than I have."

"I asked you not to call them that," said Hanasba.

"You asked me not to call them that _to their faces_ ," Olafur retorted. "I don't see one of them around here, unless there is an Inquisitor hiding somewhere."

"Now who has an answer for everything?" asked Hanasba.

"We learn from our leaders," replied Olafur.

"We leave at nightfall," said Hanasba. "I will need you to take point."

"As it should be," said Olafur. He might complain about his orders, but Olafur was still a Space Marine and would perform his duty. His attitude was what made Olafur the powerful weapon of the Emperor that he was, but it would not do to have the rest of the kill-team witness such seeming insubordination.

"Get into shelter with the others," said Hanasba. "Ready your weapons and equipment. I will take watch until sunset."

Olafur clicked his com-bead to acknowledge the order and set off toward the ruined terminal station.

Hanasba climbed up to the broken slab and began to scan the area. His eyes took in every bump and crag in the tortured landscape, searching for movement that might betray the presence of the enemy. The sun setting into the ugly brown haze made Hanasba long to see the red sandstone cliffs glowing in the fading light on his home world.

Guardsman Dubcek raised his fist as he stopped in his tracks. The crunching footsteps behind him came to a halt as the squad froze in place. Dubcek opened his fist and he heard the squad scramble for cover. Raising one finger, Dubcek motioned forward before dropping to one knee.

"What is it, guardsman?" asked Sergeant Boedker coming to kneel alongside Dubcek. The sergeant's voice was muffled by his filtration mask.

"I don't like the looks of that ditch up ahead, Sergeant," said Dubcek nodding toward a canyon of twisted metal with slopes of granulated rust. "It looks like an ambush waiting to happen."

"Agreed," said Boedker. "Advance two-by. Hold five for flanking cover."

Boedker fell back and Dubcek waited for the flankers to move into position. He had cursed his luck when he drew the point position, but thanked the Emperor he would not have to climb the ridges. Not only was the footing bad, but whoever drew flank duty would be silhouetted against the sickly orange glow of the sky.

A rumble came from the canyon ahead. He rubbed the filthy lenses of his filtration mask, but still couldn't see anything. It was most likely another scrap slide.

The crack of a discharging lasgun behind him caused Dubcek to turn around to see a hulking ork hacking at Sergeant Boedker's neck with a thick bladed cleaver. Dubcek froze as he watched Boedker's lasgun discharge uselessly into the ground. The shot seemed to be a signal for pandemonium to break out all along the column.

A jet of flame erupted near the rear of the company, silhouetting a guardsman just before he was engulfed. Bits of scrap on both sides of the column were shoved away to allow the orks concealed beneath the detritus to open fire. Dubcek saw the mist of blood spray from two of his squad mates against the lurid flames. The guardsmen crumpled to the ground without having fired a shot as Dubcek raised his lasgun to his shoulder and thumbed the selector to full-auto.

Scrambling sideways, Dubcek cut loose at the enemy positions. Only the xenos' heads and shoulders were exposed, but he let them have it anyway to keep their filthy heads down until he could reach some cover.

Dubcek dove behind a mangled mass of pipes and was badly lacerated by a piece of steel when he landed. Ignoring the pain in his upper arm, Dubcek lifted his lasgun and searched for a target.

He found one when a huge form rose up directly in front of him. Dubcek snapped off a short burst that stitched a line up the ork's chest and into its face. The bulky shape reeled back but did not fall. Dubcek watched the beast reach up to remove the ruined goggles from its smoking face. The ork turned to face Dubcek, giving what could only be a grin before raising its cleaver above its head and loosing a bloodcurdling bellow.

Faced with the awesome horror of the xenos threat, Guardsman Dubcek did what any right thinking soldier of the Imperium would do in such circumstances. He turned and ran.

He only made it a few steps down the steep slope before the rough terrain tripped him and he tumbled to the bottom of the canyon.

Dubcek landed on his back and the breath was blasted from his lungs. The crack of lasgun fire interspersed with the booms of the crude ork guns told him the fight was still raging above. Looking toward the heights, Dubcek could see no sign of the ork which had menaced him atop the hill.

Dubcek put his hand on the severed end of a girder to help himself up, but paused when he felt a vibration within the metal. The sensation seemed to gain in intensity until he could hear a mechanical roar. The sputter of gunfire came from behind him and he spun around, raising his lasgun.

Motoring down the canyon floor were two vehicles which were little more than wheels, guns and engines. The flame-spitting power plants were the source of the roaring sound. Huge tires threw up rooster-tails of rusty detritus as the buggies careened toward him. A single driver sat in the center of each vehicle, while a second figure rode in the rear manning a swivel mounted machine gun.

As Dubcek watched, the gunners cut loose with a fusillade toward the top of the hill. Dust and rusty sand rained down on Dubcek as large caliber bullets blasted away at the slope. The orks didn't seem concerned for the possibility of hitting one of their fellows as they unleashed a second burst toward the top of the canyon.

Dubcek knew that they would be on him in less than a minute. His only chance for survival was to hide and wait for the orks to pass, but his only chance for glory was to take a stand.

Thousands of training hours took over as Dubcek lined up the bead near the muzzle with the notch on the rear sight. Placing the glowing green dot on a howling machine-gunner, Dubcek took a deep breath and exhaled half before squeezing the trigger. The crack and brief flash were followed by an enormous explosion which tore the buggy and its occupants to bits. Dubcek lowered his lasgun and stared for a moment, shocked at his own success.

"Take that!" he shouted. "Tell 'em the Raikan Four-Four sent you!"

Flush with exultation, the guardsman raised his lasgun and took aim at the second buggy. The sights had barely settled on the vehicle when the rear tire and part of the engine burst and caught fire.

"Huh?" said Dubcek. "Didn't even have to fire that time."

Dubcek took aim at the orks climbing out of their destroyed buggy. He squeezed off a shot that missed the orks entirely, but punched a hole in the buggy's cooling system. The orks looked at the gout of steam coming from the buggy, then turned toward Dubcek.

"Emperor, give us a break," he said. Before he could squeeze the trigger again, the unmistakable sound of bolter fire erupted from the ridge above. The two orks were torn to shreds by explosive projectiles in the blink of an eye.

Dubcek looked toward the sound of gunfire, but only caught the barest hint of movement behind the ridge. Scrambling to his feet, the guardsman started up the slope. As he dug his feet into the industrial rubbish he could hear short bursts of automatic gunfire coming from the high ground. It was as if someone with great trigger discipline was clearing a building...

...or executing the wounded.

The shooting came to a halt as Dubcek reached the crest of the slope. He slowly poked his head up to see what had happened. A hulking form with a tiny head was silhouetted against the small blaze that had recently been a guardsman of the Raikan 44th.

A lump formed in Dubcek's throat as he realized that the orks must have destroyed his entire squad. Without thinking, he raised his lasgun to his shoulder and took aim at the huge figure, hoping to take down at least one of the xenos filth before he was killed in turn.

"In the name of the Emperor hold your fire, soldier," came a deep voice from his right. "That's my sergeant you are aiming at."

Dubcek turned and looked directly into the cavernous barrels of a storm bolter. He slowly placed his lasgun on the ground and raised his empty hands.

"I think I may have had an accident," he said. An uncomfortable sensation spread through his trousers.

"It is a common reaction," said the Space Marine lowering the massive weapon. "I am Mullinax of the Deathwatch."

"If there really are Space Marines here, it could change everything," said General Zachary Beltsen. He had been debriefing a lieutenant from the Molov 710th when an orderly had brought word that a patrol picked up a squad of Space Marines. Beltsen was going to meet the guests when he crossed paths with Commissar Danilov, who had just received the same news.

The two men walked side by side through the halls of the improvised command bunker. The greenish rockcrete walls and floor were lit with harsh chemical lights. As they drew near the exit, a distant rumble shook the walls. Neither man looked up as the jury-rigged lights swung back and forth.

"I doubt that the Adeptus Asartes would be deployed in an action like ours," said Commissar Danilov. "I intend to find out who is responsible for this waste of time and make an example of him."

Beltsen sighed. The Commissariat was in charge of morale, but Danilov was the most pessimistic man the General had ever met.

"I suppose we will find out momentarily," said Beltsen unhooking his filtration mask from his belt and shaking the dust out of it.

The guard spun the handle on the hatch as Beltsen took off his wool cap and placed his filtration mask over his face. Beltsen had never been a tall man, but was shorter still since having two vertebra removed after a brief action in Segmentum Solar. His left leg and left arm had been replaced by augmetics after a lucky hit by a heretic mortar team had deprived him of the originals. Beltsen felt fortunate to have so much of himself left after nearly seventy standard years serving the Emperor.

Commissar Danilov removed his peaked cap to reveal close cropped hair so pale it appeared white in the glaring light. Had it not been for a decidedly cruel turn of mouth and a grim hardness about the eyes, Danilov might be considered a beautiful man. A full head taller than the General, Danilov stood ramrod straight with shoulders thrown back. The Commissar placed his filtration mask over his face and zipped his greatcoat up to his neck before placing his cap back on his head.

"Ready, sirs?" asked the guardsman.

"Go ahead, corporal," said Beltsen.

The guardsman swung the hatch wide and the three men were assaulted by a strong wind. The two officers bent into the wind and hustled across the yard toward the checkpoint. They exchanged brief salutes with the guardsman manning the door and entered the low steel structure. The wind took the door out of the guardsman's hand and it slammed behind them. Beltsen gratefully removed his hat and mask and broke into a wide smile when he saw who was in the room.

"I am Sergeant Hanasba of the Deathwatch," said the massive figure who had to bend slightly beneath the ceiling.

"General Zachary Beltsen," he said offering a salute. "And this is Commissar Danilov."

"Allow me to say how good it is to have you with us," said Beltsen.

"That remains to be seen, General," said Hanasba.

"Pardon me?" said Beltsen.

"I have not received parameters of my current objective," explained Hanasba. "It is possible that my squad and I will be extracted immediately."

"And why would you be extracted when we have a stalemate here that has lasted for months?" asked Danilov.

"I cannot answer that until I have made contact with my... overseer," said Hanasba. "I have need of your communications terminal."

"Of course you have our permission to use the com terminal," said Danilov. "But contact with the naval forces has been patchy at best."

"I will not be contacting the Navy," said Hanasba. "And I do not seek your permission, Commissar. You will show me to your communications array now."

Danilov stiffened at the rebuke and Beltsen resisted the urge to flinch. He wondered if the Space Marine would gun the commissar down, or simply tear the man apart with his massive gauntlets.

"Please follow me," said Beltsen a little ruefully. It appeared that Danilov was not going to be summarily executed, at least not yet.

"I have received new operational objectives," Hanasba said. Kill-Team Tomahawk was assembled in an empty storage structure. The Space Marines stood or knelt as they preferred, while General Beltsen and Commissar Danilov stood alongside Hanasba. "I have asked General Beltsen to brief us on the situation here, which will have some bearing on our mission."

"Thank you, Sergeant," said Betlsen. "The factorum-city of Kaibab was overrun by ork forces eight local months ago," he began as he pointed to a map spread out on the table. "A major counter-offensive was launched six local months ago, and we have been able to push the orks back into the city. Since then, the fighting has been street to street, with neither side making much progress. Except for the ork trenches circling the docks, the front is fluid. Across the river lies one of the largest spaceports on the continent which is still held by the orks. The spaceport is critical to operations on this hemisphere."

"Why not circumvent the city?" asked Torquemeda. "Perform a crossing here or here and take the spaceport. Once the landing field is yours, you could destroy the orks at your leisure."

"That was my original plan," said Beltsen. "But the greenskins have something in place which counters any such action. Commissar, if you please."

Danilov drew several images from a case and spread them on the table.

"That's the ugliest building I've ever seen," said Mocanu.

"That's not a building," said Torquemeda. "It's a Gargant."

"Correct," said Beltsen. "The war machine arrived just as we entered the city."

"These machines are often built in pairs," said Torquemeda. "Are there any reports of another one in the vicinity?"

"No," said General Beltsen. "But this particular construct appears to have two 'heads' if you will. We are not sure why. The Gargant is currently located in the center of the river between Kaibab and the spaceport. Our scouts reported that it walked into the river and halted after destroying bridges here, here, and here." explained Beltsen, using a swagger stick to point to the map. "We still do not know whether the thing is stuck, or simply holding its position. Regardless the reason, it effectively prevents us from crossing the river or assaulting the spaceport."

"Thank you, General," said Hanasba. "That's all we need for now. You may go."

"But we haven't briefed you on force strength or location," said Danilov. "We have elements of-"

"I can read the tactical map, Commissar," said Hanasba. "I will inform the general if there is anything else."

Beltsen led the sputtering Commissar out of the room, leaving the kill-team to its work.

"Speed it up, you lot," growled Brakka. The runtherd squeezed the trigger on his grot-prod for emphasis. Arcs of blue energy coruscated along the tip, leaving the smell of ozone in the air.

Slouch knew the scent of the prod well, though it was often accompanied by the smell of his own scorched flesh. He quickly scrambled up the side of a heap of rubble out of Brakka's reach.

"Gather up all the metal plates you can find and brings 'em back," ordered the runtherd.

"What say boss?" asked one foolish grot, cupping his hand around his long pointed ear.

"Pay attention!" shouted Brakka shoving the prod into the insolent gretchin's shoulder and pulling the trigger. The gretchin seemed to dance a jig as the electricity coursed through its body.

Slouch giggled as he watched his boss mete out justice on his mate Grub. The way Grub's body twitched when the prod was applied always looked funny. At least it was when it was not Slouch who was being disciplined.

Brakka reached down and grasped the pointed tip of Grub's ear, holding it open to make sure he was heard. "Get metal plates," he shouted into Grub's filthy ear. "The boss wants to make his trukk 'arder and needs more armor." Releasing Grub's ear, Brakka wiped his hands on the seat of his britches.

Grub scrambled to his feet and scampered away. His ears were ringing from the effects of the prod and he still had no idea what Brakka wanted, but asking for clarification did not seem wise. He spotted his friend Slouch peering out from behind a mound of rubble and headed toward him.

Slouch saw Brakka looking in his direction and quickly looked down as if he had been searching the whole time. He shifted some rubble around as he waited for Grub to catch up.

"What is he on about?" said Grub shoving one finger in his ear and wiggling it about.

"Dunno," replied Slouch. "But we better get on with it."

The two grots sifted through the rubble, making a big show of working.

"Find anything good?" asked Grub.

"No," said Slouch. "Just burnt up humie stuff."

"Me neither," said Grub from near the bottom of the heap. "Help me move this plate. There might be something good underneath."

The gretchin grunted and heaved, trying to shift the thick plate of steel from where it was wedged.

"What was that?" asked Grub taking his hands from the edge of the plate and putting his hand up to one ear.

Slouch lost his grip on the heavy sheet and it crashed back onto the pile with a dull clang.

"I didn't hear nothing," said Slouch. "Now quit fooling around."

"Not kidding," said Grub. "It sounded like a shoota."

"There's a war on," said Slouch clubbing Grub across the ear hole. "Of course you heard a shoota." As he said it however, the flat report of a gun sounded from nearby. The grots dove to the ground and placed their hands over their heads.

"Do you have your shoota with you?" asked Grub.

"I lost it," said Slouch. Actually, it had been seized by Brakka after Slouch had nearly shot the runtherd. Slouch felt quite embarrassed about the incident and didn't want to tell his friend he had missed.

"Sounds like they're getting closer," said Grub.

"We better hide," said Slouch.

Fear lent the gretchin strength and they were able to shift the heavy piece of steel enough to wiggle beneath it.

"I can't see nothing from under here," said Grub.

"There's nothing out there," said Slouch. He could see part of the lane through a gap in the rubble, but so far nothing had appeared. Just as he was about to suggest that Grub go out and take a look, a grot sprinted across the alley. There was a brief burst of gunfire and the fellow was blown to bits.

Slouch slapped his hand across his mouth to suppress a snicker. "They got somebody," he whispered.

"Who was it?" asked Grub.

"That new lad," said Slouch. "I forget his name. But he came right apart and his shoes are still lying in the road."

"I hope no one picks them up," said Grub. "He had good shoes."

"Why don't you go get them?" asked Slouch hoping to see another comedic performance.

"What do you think, I'm crazy?" asked Grub. "You'll nick 'em before I can get the feet out of them."

The grots fell silent as the sound of heavy footsteps approached. A form easily as large as a nob wearing heavy armor walked slowly down the street with a shoota raised.

"Who's that coming?" whispered Grub.

"Shh!" said Slouch as the figure froze and looked in their direction.

For once Grub did as he was told, but it was too late. The massive armored figure snapped the muzzle of its shoota toward the grots' hiding place and fired. Slouch scarcely had time to duck his head beneath the heavy sheet of steel before explosive rounds began to detonate against it. He could feel the thick metal begin to buckle beneath his hands. Slouch felt like he was inside a huge bell as bullets ricocheted off the steel. The last round cracked the sheet, showering Slouch with sparks.

"We've got to get out of here!" Slouch hollered. Slouch reached beside him, searching for Grub. If he could somehow get his friend in between himself and the thing with the dakka shoota he might survive the next salvo. He groped around for a moment but could find no trace of Grub. Reaching further down, Slouch found the end of some kind of duct beneath the mound of rubble. Grub must have already scarpered.

"Thanks for telling me, mate," Slouch groused as he wormed his way down the hidden bolt hole. His ears were still ringing and did not hear the sound of the grenade falling on the metal plate, but he definitely heard the explosion afterward that fired him through the duct like a rocket.

"Clear," said Mocanu scanning the mound of rubble and finding no trace of life.

"I thought this was supposed to be a covert operation," said Olafur over the com-bead. "Mocanu is throwing ordinance at every rat he sees."

"I'll throw one at you next, Olafur," replied Mocanu.

"Calm the chatter, Tomahawk Two," ordered Hanasba. "Tomahawk Four, use grenades with discretion." Hanasba shook his head. He thought that he had seen a gout of flame erupt from nearby and a tiny figure being blasted into the air a split second after Mocanu's grenade had detonated. He made a mental note to mention the apparition to a chaplain as soon as he could.

Since leaving the command center, Tomahawk Squad had made their way toward the riverfront avoiding ork patrols when they could and destroying them when they could not.

"River approach sighted," he said. "Multiple contacts in fortified positions."

"All units take cover," said Hanasba. "Tomahawk Three, hold position. I'm coming up."

Running in a crouch, Hanasba made his way to where Torquemeda was kneeling behind a length of corrugated metal. As the sergeant approached Torquemeda eased back from his position to give Hanasba an unimpeded view.

The rubble had been pulverized by some immense force, leaving the area in front of the docks devoid of cover. Two lengths of barbed wire were strung across the open field.

After the second row of barbed wire began the trenches. Despite his hatred for the xenos, Hanasba had to admit that the complex had been laid out with a solid understanding of static warfare. The paired main trenches had been dug in a zigzag pattern with angled traverse trenches providing access to the complex from the river. Two triangular bunkers had been dug equidistant from the ends of the main trenches. Hanasba guessed the structures to be ammo dumps, or command bunkers of some kind.

Gun emplacements had been placed every few meters atop the levee behind the trench network. Hanasba could see the heads and shoulders of the orks stationed at each gun, protruding above the sandbag breastworks.

All this he took in with a practiced glance before his eyes rose toward their target standing in the center of the river. Even from over a klom away, the war machine looked enormous. The figure was nearly as wide as it was tall and seemed to bristle with spikes which Hanasba assumed were cannon. The thick arms were bent at what would have been the elbow on a humanoid, but were still so long as to be nearly level with the water. Baleful orange lights shone from the two heads, and Hanasba could almost believe that he cowered before the penetrating gaze of a dire god.

"Tomahawk Two," said Hanasba shaking off the feeling. "Displace to higher ground. I want your assessment of the enemy entrenchment."

Olafur broke cover and made his way to a cracked tower which rose slightly above the surrounding destruction.

"Cute," he said as he settled into position.

"Say again, Tomahawk Two?" asked Hanasba.

"Do you not see it?" asked Olafur. "Look at the pattern of the trenches."

Hanasba turned his attention away from the looming effigy and back to the defensive zone in front of the river. With the fresh view, his perception changed and he saw what had caught the Wolf Brother's attention. The trenches had been dug into the shape of a monstrous grinning face.

"What is your assessment, Tomahawk Two?" asked Hanasba.

"Possible mine field between the two lengths of barbed wire," said Olafur. "Even if it isn't mined, the field forms a kill zone for the machine-guns on the docks. Advancing will be best done with armor support. The trench complex contains plenty of personnel. It will take some hard knife work to winkle them out."

"I concur," said Hanasba.

"Of course, all this means nothing with that thing in the river," said Olafur. "It has a fell look about it."

"That is why we're here," said Hanasba.

"Airborne contact bearing zero-nine-eight," came Mullinax's voice over the com.

"Deep cover," ordered Hanasba. He moved toward a nearby overhang and squeezed himself beneath the busted rockcrete.

"Still inbound, Tomahawk One," said Mullinax. "Three contacts bearing directly on our position."

"Are we being scanned, Tomahawk Three?" Hanasba asked as he flipped the selector on his bolter to full-auto and made ready to break cover.

"Negative," replied Torquemeda. "At least not that I could detect."

"The eyes of the xenos gods are on this place," said Olafur. "We cannot hide in their demesne."

"Belay that, Tomahawk Two," said Hanasba. "They must have detected our com signals or energy signature."

"Regardless, they are headed straight for us," said Mullinax.

"Prepare to engage," ordered Hanasba. He could hear the dull thrum of rotors as the aircraft approached. "Blitz attack and prepare to fall back," he said. "I want all three of those things down in the first salvo."

"In range on my mark..." said Mullinax.

Hanasba could hear his own heart beating in time with the rotors of the xenos aircraft as his blood answered the call to battle.

"Mark," said Mullinax.

"For the Emperor!" Hanasba called as he stepped out from beneath cover and raised his bolter.

Through the aiming reticle, he saw the xenos craft for the first time. The copters were completely unarmored, and consisted little more than a seat attached to a huge engine and rotor assembly. Large clusters of bombs hung from beneath the pilot's seat making the craft look like insects carrying loads of pollen back to the hive.

Hanasba squeezed the trigger, sending a line of bolts toward the ramshackle craft. He could see similar lines of fire rising toward the formation from the other members of the kill-team.

The fire discipline of the Space Marines proved to be the xenos' undoing as explosive bolts impacted against all three craft simultaneously. Two of the copters were engulfed in flames as their poorly armored fuel tanks burst, immolating the pilots and raining fire down over the area. The third copter was hit, tearing the tail section free and sending the craft into a spin.

Hanasba lowered his bolter, but as the copter's wild rotations brought it back around, the pilot was able to launch a missile. Hanasba threw his feet from beneath him and dropped face first to the ground. As the missile sailed overhead, Hanasba could see the head of a tiny creature wearing goggles poking out of a cockpit just behind the warhead. The Sergeant could hear the grotesque xenos cursing as it flew past, wrestling with the steering yoke.

A terrific explosion sent a wave of heat and concussion toward him. Warning indicators flashed on his helmet display as he was flattened to the ground. The sensation of being crushed was soon replaced by the impacts of falling debris.

The damaged copter slewed to a halt alongside Hanasba with its rotor blades slicing through the air above him. The sergeant rolled onto his side and fired his bolter at the dizzy pilot who was climbing from the seat. The round punched into the ork's gut and detonated, splattering Hanasba with pieces of greenish flesh and viscera.

"Sound off, Tomahawk squad," he said climbing to his feet.

"Tomahawk Two, battle ready," said Olafur.

"Tomahawk Three, battle ready," replied Torquemeda.

"Tomahawk Five, battle ready," said Mullinax.

Hanasba waited for a moment before calling out. "Tomahawk Four, position and status," he said.

The hissing click of a damaged vox was the only reply.

"Tomahawk Two, what was Mocanu's last position?" asked Hanasba, his gut sinking.

"He was behind a transport on the river side of the street-" Olafur halted abruptly and cursed. "There is a blast crater there now," he finished.

Hanasba spun in the direction the ordinance had landed. Smoke rose from a depression which was partially filled with debris.

The Sergeant rushed to the lip of the crater. Mocanu was sprawled near the bottom, feebly struggling to reach the edge. Only one arm seemed to work as he dug at the rubble. Of Mocanu's legs there was no sign.

Hanasba moved quickly to the Space Marine's side.

"Rest easy, brother," said Hanasba.

Mocanu's struggles ceased as if he had reached the last of his strength. Hanasba took hold of Mocanu's pauldron and gently turned the soldier onto his back. The sergeant stifled a gasp when he saw the extent of the damage. Moncanu's breastplate bore great rents, the jagged ends of which had been driven deep into the Space Marine's torso. The faceplate of his helmet had been peeled upward by the blast and what was left of Mocanu's face was unrecognizable.

Hanasba would have thought that Mocanu had gone to meet the Emperor, had it not been for the regular spurts of blood pouring from the dire wounds on his chest.

"Hanas-" Mocanu tried to say, but was interrupted by a gagging cough which brought more blood pouring from his ruined face.

"Don't speak, brother," said Hanasba. He wanted to reassure the brave warrior and tell him that he would be fine, but the lie wouldn't come.

Mocanu reached up and grasped Hanasba's gauntlet.

"My brother," he managed to say. Mocanu released Hanasba's gauntlet and reached up to touch the center of Hanasba's breastplate where the Deathwatch iconography could barely be seen beneath the muck. "My home," Mocanu said before moving on to prepare for the final battle at the end of time.

Hanasba took a moment to fold the warrior's arms over his chest. The kill-team did not have an apothecary to recover Mocanu's gene-seed, and there was little left of his armor. All that was Brother Iacob Mocanu of the Iron Lords and the Deathwatch was lost.

The sergeant got to his feet and turned away from the brother who had made the sacrifice that every Space Marine would eventually be called to make.

"Tomahawk five, do you think you can carry that aircraft?" asked Hanasba as he lifted the dead Space Marine into his arms.

"I could if there was a need," replied Mullinax.

"There is," replied Hanasba.

Olafur lifted his feet and allowed the current to carry him a meter or so forward before touching back down. He had discovered that the most efficient way to traverse the river bottom was to allow the flowing sludge to do the work for him. To call the orange gunk water would be too much of a stretch.

His helmet display registered something large at the extremity of its range. Reaching the side of the building sized pillar, Olafur scanned its surface. The structure seemed to be made of rough plates of steel riveted together in the typical haphazard orkish fashion. He almost missed his ingress point, as the access was crude, even for orks. A simple ladder led up toward the river's surface. Grasping the first of the unevenly spaced rungs, Olafur began to haul himself upward.

The river was nearly twenty meters deep in the center, but it was mere moments before Olafur's head broke the surface. Raising his head above the level of the noxious liquid, Olafur looked up. Directly above him was the superstructure that distributed the mass of the Gargant between the two legs. There were no orks guarding the access point, which was a massive air lock hatch that must have been retrofitted from a spacecraft. Despite the portal's size and obvious weight, it would prove only a minor hindrance.

"Tomahawk Two, in position," Olafur said quietly.

A double click over the com-bead was the only reply as he settled back below the level of the water to wait.

"Tomahawk Three and Tomahawk Five, in position," said Mullinax giving one last look at the hastily constructed fortifications. The bulwark of rubble between the city and mine field had been reinforced with sandbags and steel plates. Two autocannons were placed along the top of the rampart with a good field of fire toward the trenches. Several missile launchers stood on the duckboards along the line.

As he checked the detonator connected to the ordinance at the base of the wall, Mullinax heard small arms fire erupt from nearby. The orks had been probing them for hours. Elements of two infantry regiments protected the flanks of the staging area, and there was little Mullinax could do to help them.

"Calm yourself, brother," said Torquemeda. "All is in readiness." The Space Marine held his bolter casually, completely at ease despite the fact that any moment he would receive the order to go over the top.

"You know as well as I do that there is no such thing as enough readiness," said Mullinax, shifting a heavy box of ammunition a little closer to one firing point. "Especially with that thing looking down upon us."

Torquemeda didn't have to ask what Mullinax was referring to. Ever since the brief engagement that had taken the life of Mocanu, he had felt the sensation of being watched. Not as if a scout or a sniper was observing him, but as if he were being regarded by a vast and powerful entity. A being whose gaze penetrated to the center of Torquemeda and found him wanting.

"That thing is about to be so much rubble at the bottom of the river," said Torquemeda despite his feelings.

"You are right, brother," said Mullinax. "I can always count on you to keep up morale."

"Speaking of morale," said Torquemeda seeing a figure coming toward them. "Here comes the commissar."

Mullinax turned away from the approaching officer trying to look busy, but it was too late.

"Greetings, honored Space Marines," said the Commissar.

"Commissar," replied Torquemeda.

"We have just repelled a substantial probe in the northern sector," said Danilov.

"Well done," said Torquemeda. He was unsure why the commissar was bringing this to his attention.

"The attacks are growing with every passing hour," said Danilov. "I'm afraid that we may not be able to hold our positions much longer."

"You will hold your position for as long as needed," said Mullinax turning to face the commissar.

"Indeed we will," said Danilov. "But I was wondering how much longer we should expect to hold here? There are matters of logistics to consider."

Torquemeda snorted, assuming that when the commissar said 'logistics', what he really meant was 'lunch'. He raised one finger ready to put the petty little man in his place when his com-bead crackled.

"Tomahawk One, inbound to target," said Hanasba. There was a great deal of noise and mechanical interference in the signal, but it was to be expected considering the situation. "Estimated time to mark, ninety seconds."

"Your answer has just arrived, Commissar," said Torquemeda. "Have your men make ready."

The engine of the copter wheezed before backfiring tremendously. Hanasba would have thought he was taking anti-aircraft fire if he hadn't already heard the noise several times. He kept the rude craft on the deck, barely skimming the truncated tops of the factorum as he made his way toward the river. He flew low partly out of habit, and partly because he thought the engine could fail at any moment. The altitude certainly had no tactical advantage. Anyone attempting to track his progress would only have to follow the trail of black smoke.

"Ten seconds," he said into the com as he flew out over the river. He had to gain altitude to rise above the heads of the Gargant, and the copter's engine complained as he hauled on the steering yoke. One of the heads turned to regard Hanasba as he approached. As the baleful gaze settled on him he suddenly doubted his own wild plan, but it was too late. He pushed the red plunger on the center of the yoke and the copter shot forward as an enormous gout of flame jetted from the exhaust. The burst of speed was so great that Hanasba nearly overshot his target, but at the last second he leaped from the seat.

"Mocanu and the Deathwatch!" he shouted as he plunged toward the narrow space between the heads of the Gargant.

 _I suppose that's the signal,_ thought Olafur as he watched the copter spin wildly out over the river. The cannons mounted on the Gargant's shoulders opened fire and blew the craft to pieces, sending flaming debris showering into the river.

Olafur had climbed to the top of the ladder when Hanasba called 'ten seconds,' and now he plunged his power sword into the hatch and tore it off the hinges.

The surprised face of an ork appeared in the opening, and Olafur promptly thrust his sword upward into the gaping mouth. Rather than withdraw the blade, he climbed upward using only one hand. The limp ork dangling from his blade proved to be an effective shield as large caliber bullets smacked into the corpse from behind.

Gaining his feet, Olafur tossed the corpse aside and charged the orks who were firing wildly at him. Olafur took the head of one ork with a horizontal sweep of his sword and planted his boot in the knee of the other. Olafur cut the second ork's head from its shoulders as its leg buckled beneath it and kicked the severed orb out the open hatch.

Olafur took a moment to look around. The room was filled with mechanisms ranging from bundles of tiny wire to pistons as wide as his shoulders. Hanasba had given him the task of disabling the motive mechanisms of the Gargant before heading deeper into the structure. Without a schematic of the war machine however, it was anyone's guess which were the critical systems.

Shrugging his shoulders, Olafur picked a direction and began to hack his way through the hydraulic lines and conduit. Fluid and steam belched from the severed ends of the lines, covering him with oil and less identifiable substances. Like an explorer making his way through a dense jungle, Olafur mowed his way through the mess until he reached a cluster of steel beams. Looking up, he saw that the beams terminated at an enormous gear. He easily found purchase on the roughly welded beams and climbed up to the massive cog.

"Careful now. You could break a hip," he said as he secured a meltabomb at the junction between the column and the gear. Olafur synched the bomb with a handheld detonator and set the timer for redundancy. Slipping the detonator into a pouch at his waist, he climbed back down the column.

When he reached the bottom, a hail of slugs came toward him from the space near the hatch. Warnings flashed in his helmet as the bullets impacted his armor. The display read a minor breach in his right pauldron and he felt a burning pain in his shoulder as a shard of lead penetrated hide and muscle.

"Do you have any idea how _old_ this armor is?" Olafur growled.

The menace in his voice seemed to register in the tiny brains of the orks, causing them to pause. When Olafur charged, it became apparent that their hesitation was an instant too long.

Mullinax gave Hanasba two minutes to gain entry into the Gargant before beginning the assault on the docks.

"Fire," he said over the com-bead.

The Space Marines pressed the spoon shaped triggers on the autocannons and sent a fusillade toward the machine-gun nests atop the levee.

The signal also reached the the Imperial guard, and the dull thunk of mortar fire sounded from behind the Space Marines. The whistle of falling ordinance soon followed, and explosions began to rip through the ork trenches.

Almost immediately the patter of gunfire came from the nests. Even over the roar of his own autocannon, Mullinax could hear the sharp crack and whine of solid slugs impacting the breastworks in front of him.

Growling low in his throat, Mullinax steadily drew his fire toward the closest nest. When the white hot line of a tracer impacted the sandbags, Mullinax held the fire on target. A satisfying puff of white smoke told Mullinax that the nest had been destroyed and he released the triggers.

"Movement from primary," said Torquemeda.

Mullinax looked up at the Gargant to see the heavy barrels of the cannons tracking toward them.

"Have faith in the sergeant, brother," Mullinax said. "He will disable the guns-"

The Gargant fired. At such a distance it was several seconds before the report of the cannon was heard, but when it arrived it sounded like nothing less than the fury of the ork gods unleashed.

"You were saying?" said Torquemeda.

Hanasba ducked and rolled aside as a scissor-like appendage ripped through the bulkhead behind him. When his tumble came to a halt he was immediately pummeled by slugs from the guns of two other enemies.

A krak grenade had gained him entrance to the Gargant, but that had been the easy part. Stepping inside, he had been assailed by three of the most heavily armored orks he had ever seen. The creatures were almost completely encased and carried weapons which looked capable of destroying a tank.

He dove between the two orks while the third struggled to extract its claw from the wall. The creatures continued to fire, but were unable to match the sergeant's speed as they rotated toward one another. Warning indicators flashed on his display. Standing up to the withering fire was not going to be an option.

The Space Marine leaped toward one of the massive orks. Using the creature's own pincer as a foothold, he pushed himself upward toward the beast's head. Hanasba grasped one of the tusk like protrusions on the ork's gorget to steady himself. The creature's eyes flew wide for an instant before Hanasba put the barrel against the ork's head and squeezed the trigger. The explosive rounds penetrated through the ork's head and into its torso where the force of the detonations was funneled upward by the thick armor.

Hanasba released his hold and dropped to the deck just as most of the ork erupted from the armor like a gruesome fountain. The massive armor remained standing on it's own, and Hanasba took cover behind the empty shell as he fired at the two remaining orks.

One of the beasts roared as it charged toward Hanasba, holding its pincer arm in front of its face, as if the bolts were nothing more than a hailstorm. As the enraged ork smashed into the empty armor, Hanasba dove forward, slapping the armor over the ork's belly as he passed.

The second ork was waiting for him with a giant metal boot upraised. The sergeant only had time to turn his head to the side before the boot pinned his helmet to the floor. His display began to fail and a crack appeared in one of his lenses as the ork brought down its prodigious weight. Pointing his bolter upward, Hanasba cut loose. The rounds burst against the heavy armor but did nothing to alleviate the mounting pressure.

An explosion knocked the ork from its feet allowing Hanasba to slip from beneath the creature's boot and roll away. The sergeant raised his bolter and saw that the grenade he had slapped onto the ork as he slid past had done its job. The explosion had ripped through the heavy armor, sending shrapnel inward to shred the ork. More importantly though, it had been sufficient to shift the weight of the ork who had been about to crush Hanasba's skull.

"And then there was one," said Hanasba placing his aiming reticle over the ork who was lying on its back struggling to right itself.

The ork seemed to sense the danger and turned to regard Hanasba with a look of hatred. It took a deep breath and loosed a gob of viscous phlegm at Hanasba just before the Space Marine sent the beast to join its kin.

Hanasba got to his feet and moved toward the hatch in the center of the floor. He had lost valuable time fighting the orks. As he opened the hatch, the rumble from the colossal cannon told him he was already too late.

Olafur felt the floor rock beneath him when the Gargant fired. Cursing in the language of his home world, Olafur raced toward the nearest set of stairs leading upward.

Half a dozen orks met him on the next level and attacked him with whatever came to hand. He parried a descending wrench with the flat of his power sword and ran the blade downward to sever the ork's hand at the wrist. A thick bladed cleaver clanged off his gauntlet as another ork tried to return the favor and Olafur fired a single round into the beast's ugly face. The ork with the severed hand screamed as it held the spurting stump before its disbelieving eyes and was rewarded for its inattention with a blade through the throat.

The four remaining orks charged as one, but after Olafur crushed the sternum of one with a boot to the chest and put a round through the head of another, the remaining pair dropped their crude weapons and fled.

Olafur kept ascending, hoping to find vital systems to destroy. The unmistakable sound of a meltabomb detonating led him up a wide spiral stairway which creaked alarmingly beneath his boots. He peered carefully over the top of the landing and found himself looking down the barrel of a gun.

"Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to help me disable the other cannon?" asked Hanasba raising his bolter. The sergeant was covered head to toe in dark ichor and his armor showed several new dents and cracks.

"You don't look so good," said Olafur climbing the rest of the way up the stairs.

"You aren't exactly ready for the parade ground," said Hanasba.

Olafur looked down at himself to find that he looked nearly as bad as the sergeant.

The two Space Marines moved through a door to find a circular room which contained an enormous engine. Even as they watched, the engine revved and gears clanked into place.

"This looks like the place," said Olafur.

Hanasba was already moving forward with a meltabomb in hand. As the sergeant placed the ordinance, Olafur covered the gantry and the wide hall beyond.

"Set and locked," said Hanasba as he moved back toward the hatch.

"Then let's get-" Olafur said before the squealing of rusted hinges interrupted him.

A steel hoof took a step into the hallway. A huge power klaw swung a hatch wide to allow a massive array of thick antennas to clear the doorway. The head of a staff, crackling with energy, came visible just before the massive ork was revealed in all its filthy glory. A head with a huge metal jaw bolted to its face looked toward Olafur just before a second head wearing an elaborate bone headdress turned to regard him as well.

"So that's where they got the idea," said Olafur as he raised his bolter and fired.

"We can't afford to wait any longer," said Mullinax. "Sound the charge."

"We will be blasted to a pulp if that Gargant fires again," replied Torquemeda. The first shell fired by the war machine had leveled a wide section of fortifications along the left flank and buried several mortar teams in rubble.

"Either on the docks or here," agreed Mullinax. "But it's now or never."

Torquemeda nodded and stepped away from his autocannon to find the detonator lying on the duckboards.

"Firing charges in twenty seconds," he broadcast, hoping he gave the slow moving guardsmen enough time. "Cover is advised."

"Acknowledged," came Beltsen's reply.

Torquemeda watched the machine gun devour the belt of ammunition as Mullinax continued to concentrate fire on the ork trenches. Just as Torquemeda's silent count reached the mark, Mullinax released the triggers and dropped to the ground.

"Mark," said Torquemeda as he pressed the button on the detonator.

The explosion shook the ground and the top layer of sandbags flew from the breastworks like dead leaves. Dust filled the air, but Torquemeda could see that the ordinance had done its job. The high breastwork between himself and Mullinax showed a gap wide enough to admit two Leman Russ tanks side by side.

"The path is clear, General," said Torquemeda. "All units advance."

A double click over the com was the only reply.

"Let's give those men some cover," said Mullinax.

Rising to his feet, Torquemeda grasped the handles of the autocannon and squeezed the triggers. The harsh wind cleared the dust just long enough for Torquemeda to see the first rank of Penal Legionnaires charge through the gap the Space Marines had blown in their own defenses. Over the roar of the autocannon he could hear tank engines revving behind them.

"Emperor, give them strength," he prayed as the men entered the mine field. "And make sure Hanasba has disabled that cursed war machine."

Hanasba gritted his teeth as he watched Olafur's bolter shells explode off the dome of energy surrounding the abomination. The beast raised its staff and unleashed a stream of purple energy toward the two Space Marines. The coruscating beam whipped back and forth wildly as if it were barely being controlled. Hanasba dove to one side. Olafur dropped flat to the metal deck, allowing the whip of energy to pass above him. Warning glyphs which made no sense flickered across Hanasba's damaged display as the beam brushed his armor.

"It's a Psyker!" called Hanasba coming up firing.

"At least half of it is, anyway," replied Olafur. He placed his boots against the gantry's handrail and shoved, sliding across the floor to reach a flanking position. He sprayed the creature with automatic fire as he slewed across the deck, but again the bolts exploded harmlessly against the energy field.

Hanasba saw what Olafur meant. As the nearest head turned to face him, he saw that the eyes seemed to radiate the same purple energy as the tip of the staff. Sparks the color of a fresh bruise dripped from the glowing orbs like electric tears. The other head had no such aura, and seemed intent on menacing Olafur with its pincer-like claw. The two halves of the creature seemed to be joined together by crude stitches and staples.

"We need to disable that energy shield," said Hanasba sending another futile burst toward the creature. "I'll draw its attention while you close the distance."

"How are you going to distract both of them?" asked Olafur as he drew his power sword and parried the descending shears in one smooth motion.

"Like this," said Hanasba. Reaching into the pouch at his waist, the sergeant withdrew the detonator and depressed the plunger.

Blue fire roared through the hatch, smashing Hanasba to the ground as the meltabomb went off. Ropes of white hot plasma danced across the room as the walls and mechanisms turned to slag. Hanasba's tortured helmet display lit up red and went out. Through his cracked lenses he could see that his gambit had worked as both of the ork's heads roared in anger and turned to face him.

The enraged ork took two lumbering steps forward before the sergeant was able to raise his bolter and fire. The rounds detonated against the energy shield, but the ork blinked and reeled back as small bits of shrapnel penetrated the weakened field.

Heartened by the minor success, Hanasba cut loose with another burst of automatic fire. The beast shook its heads and voiced a bellow as it charged. Hanasba's first instinct was to dive out of the way, but a small movement at the corner of his eye caused him to hold his ground. He raised his bolter above his head to block the descending claw just as Olafur's power sword sliced upward through the mechanism mounted on the ork's back.

Sparks poured from the device, and the bubble of energy went dark. The ork spun on its metal hoof and delivered a back-handed swing at Olafur, who lost his grip on his sword and slid across the deck.

Hanasba drew his combat knife as he leaped toward the maddened ork. He plunged the blade into the junction between the unarmored head and neck. A welter of dark gore spurted from the wound as Hanasba ripped the blade downward and plunged it home again. Purple fire erupted from the ork's staff and the beast shoved the psychic conduit into Hanasba's belly. The sergeant felt the flames scorch him as if he were not wearing armor, but he ignored the pain and continued to saw through the abomination's torso.

Olafur gained his feet slowly and turned in time to see Hanasba be immolated. Olafur drew his bolter, but with the sergeant clinging to the ork's side he had no clear shot. Olafur saw the ork raise its power klaw and reach for Hanasba.

Reaching into the pouch at his waist, Olafur withdrew a detonator and pushed the plunger. The blast of the meltabomb he had placed in the hip mechanism sounded distant, but the entire structure shifted suddenly, throwing Olafur and the ork off balance. The ork swung its claw away from Hanasba in a futile attempt to keep its balance. Olafur scrambled toward the flailing ork, taking aim with his bolter as the beast crashed to the deck.

Hanasba rose to his knees, pulling his combat blade from the creature's chest. Bruise colored flames still flickered along his armor as he raised the blackened blade above his head. The glowing eyes made a fine target as he plunged his blade downward.

Olafur leaped high and landed on the pincer arm, pinning it to the ground before it could snap Hanasba in two. Rising to one knee, the Space Marine shoved the muzzle of his bolter into the steel maw of the monster and squeezed the trigger. Half a magazine of explosive projectiles spread the monster's head over much of the slanted floor.

"All units advance," ordered General Beltsen from his mobile command post. The interior of the Chimera was crowded and ill lit, but the image of the tottering Gargant on the view screen was as clear as day. "Amphibious units prepare to cross the river."

The Aumet 915th penal legion had taken a beating crossing the mine field, but their sacrifice had not been in vain. The disgraced soldiers had gained some redemption in death by opening a path to the ork trenches which the Andalusian 87th and the Raikan 44th had exploited fully. The Molov 710th Armored had performed their part of the battle admirably, bracketing the ork trenches with heavy fire as the infantry advanced through no man's land. With the exception of the penal legion, each unit would receive commendations for their part in the action, but none of it would have been possible without the aid of the Deathwatch.

The two Space Marines had led the charge on the trenches, racing through no man's land on the heels of the penal legion before breaking right and left to cut a swath through the xenos ranks. Commissar Danilov had been near the front and reported the entire action. The normally haughty officer had looked pale and shaken as he described the carnage. Beltsen himself had never seen the Adeptus Asartes in action, but if it could bring about such awe in a man as arrogant as Danilov, it must be a sight to see.

As the massive figure of the ork war machine finally overbalanced and fell ponderously into the murky water of the river, Beltsen closed his eyes and gave silent thanks to the Emperor.

Olafur's power sword ripped through one last bulkhead allowing the two Space Marines to clamber out of the wreckage and into the polluted air of Pileatus. They looked across the ripples of orange sludge to see a fleet of amphibious assault craft emerging from the clouds of dust and smoke.

"Another mission accomplished, Sergeant," said Olafur.

"Indeed," replied Hanasba.

"And your last with the Deathwatch, I suppose," said Olafur.

Hanasba thought back over the battle, and further back to the actions of the past. In the middle of a war zone with his battle-brother at his side and his vanquished enemy literally under his feet, Hanasba made his decision.


End file.
